infatuation
by within a sepulchre
Summary: -"He's brought you love, and it reeks of late nights and popcorn and too many drinks and hideouts, and you don't want it anymore."-Dedication inside. Drabble. Please R&R! A little bit of language. Mikita.


**A/N: So, I've been wanting to write something for Nikita (again) for a long time. My multi-chap basically fizzled on me, so I decided on writing a drabble. Do enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed.**

**Dedications: to brokengirl24 (Nina) I didn't use her ideas, but she really motivated me to write this. **

**;;;**

He's there in your mind, carved and _burned_ in you. And you can't force him out. His teasing hazel eyes parade around your inner eye, never ceasing to rob you of your breath. You've been tossing in your sleep more than usual. Your raven eyes underlined with wide, dark shadows shows how life is treating you. How _he's _affecting you.

He's there, and he's _not _getting out. No matter your fight against it. The tumultuous battle raging in your mind is never going to stop. And it hurts to know you have no control of that. That's the only thing that you're not dominant over. The one concept that will never fade.

**;;;**

"Nikita." It's his voice. He's whispering your name for some abstract reason that you don't care to find out about. You shouldn't have let him in your apartment nor in your heart. But you love him. You _do_. And he needs you.

"Michael." You murmur his name; it's painful to even communicate, and yet that word slipping off your tongue is almost a celestial blessing to be able to declare .

"Nikita. Listen to me." Your averted eyes, most unusual for you, should tell him that you've no desire to speak to him

(But how could you explain why you let him in? How could you tell him how much you love him and how much your body sweats for him?)

But-shit-you want nothing more than to be able to talk to him. His gravelly voice caresses your face and floats through your body, softening and melting each organ, or so it seems.

"Why won't you talk to me?" His voice is eager and willing and almost _hungering_ for the truth.

_He will not accept you. He never will._

"It's nothing, Michael. It's-I'm fine. I just haven't been getting enough sleep," you mumble.

"That's not true, Nikita," his voice is soft and exasperated, "what's wrong with you?"

A spark of something claws its way to the surface- the old you- it rears its persistently stubborn head and yells, "Why have you come here, Michael? I don't want you here!" A gusty sigh erupts from his shapely mouth, and you snap your mouth shut.

_Tell him to leave._

"Just leave me alone," you say tiredly, "I just can't do _this_.. anymore."

His masculine head with the strong mouth, straight nose, and extraordinary eyes lifts up slowly, and comprehension appears, bringing an excited flush to his cheeks.

"What is 'this', Nikita?" He asks, voice low and jittery, "what do you consider 'us' as?"

_He's got you. _

"Nothing, Michael. Nothing," you murmur, trying to close your widened eyes, but-holy shit-he's approaching you. And he's all broad shoulders, muscular chest, and toned arms (You can't handle that beauty!). Your heart rate quickens, as does your breath. You lunge across the interior of your warehouse apartment with ease.

He mustn't reach you.

You're breathing heavily behind your leather couch, and he's shouting you name, his voice echoing forlornly into the spacious expanse of your home.

But he's smart; he knows you find comfort in leather, and his approaching footsteps signals he's got you all figured out.

You curl up against the soft material. His large hand closes around your slender arm, and he pulls you gently to your feet. You push at his hard chest; he's persistent. He's mumbling your name and pulling the clip out of your silky hair. Your ebony locks cascade down and around your slender body as his thumb strokes your cheekbone. His other hand courses through you hair and moves to your waist.

His moist mouth settles against your ear. "What's wrong, Nikita?" His hand moves up and down your back. He pushes your slick jacket off your toned shoulders.

You tremble with the heat. "You."

His chuckle in you ear sends chills over your sweaty, quivering skin; he melds your waist to his; his lips tentatively then passionately meet yours.

"Stop," you mumble against his mouth.

"No," his tongue is searching your neck and eyelids, and you know, at that moment, that it-this-can't happen again.

**;;;**

His grasp on you is tight. He's your ventriloquist, pulling and swaying your judgment and reason. And-damn!-you love him so fucking much, and you can't let him go. Neither can he loosen his cruel hold on _you_.

He's brought you love, and it reeks of late nights and popcorn and too many drinks and hideouts, and you don't want it anymore.

But you're meant for each other.

**;;;**

_The course of true love never did run smooth._

_~Shakespeare_

**;;;**

**A/N: I hope you liked it. It was written very quickly. I know it was confusing, but drabbles are, to me, that way. So please review. They mean a lot. **

_**~Livvy**_


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